Friday, April 3, 2015

     I was reading a magazine yesterday, something I rarely do unless I am cornered in a doctor or dentist’s office both of which I avoid like kumquats. One sentence in the article jumped out at me:  “Are you living the life you pictured?” wtf. When did any of us ever picture our lives? When we were three? seven? twelve? forty? The only one in my family who pictured my life was my father, not me. Actually in many cases, our parents’ pictures became ours. After all, imagine your mom or dad saying when you were six,”You would like to be a rocket scientist, Georgie, wouldn’t you?” At six, were you going to say, “Get a grip, Pops, I want to be a belly dancer.”

     So we each get a mental picture at an early age, and then around 43.5, we wake up one morning and say, “Wtf? I don’t even like doing this? Is this what my life will be until they pour me into an urn?” Fortunately, my Dad’s picture became a dream come true for me. I became a teacher, and it was the perfect career for me, and I still miss it nine years after retiring. In the “old days,” people chose a career and stuck with it for years. Today, young people know that changing careers is the norm, and if they don’t like one, they can just quit and start another. Quitting spelled failure and instability in my generation. Today that translates:  talented, flexible, a self-starter. Some of my acquaintances weren’t so lucky in their career choices, though, and I think that’s sad. They stayed stuck because they liked the money or didn’t know what else to do. Today, no one needs to stay stuck. Get out the Goo-be-gone, loosen up, and start a new plan, Stan.

     In the same magazine, someone suggested some new words for Mr. Webster. I like one in particular, the “saddict.” A saddict is one who takes great pleasure in being miserable. Do you know people like this? They are on their soapbox day and night bemoaning the state of the world, the state of the state, the state of the community, the state of their health--you name it, they’re moaning about it. I just wish they’d move to another state and zip it. These people pollute my air and make me sad. Oops. Am I one of them?

     When I drove 35 miles to get my hair cut yesterday, I picked up this magazine while waiting only to discover that my hair stylist was not there, and I was not on her schedule. As my mind was processing the ugliness that I would display in front of my peers at my evening meeting, I inadvertently shoved said magazine into my purse. 
I suppose I should thank my stylist for standing me up, for I wouldn’t have been able to articulate the above wisdom had I stayed home and enjoyed my afternoon siesta.